Michael Shaara - The Killer Angels

A new wave of firing. A hole in the smoke. Chamberlain saw a man on his knees before him, facing the enemy, arms clutching his stomach. A man was yelling an obscene word.

Chamberlain looked, could not see who it was. But the fire from his boys was steady and heavy and they were behind trees and under rocks and pouring it in, and Chamberlain saw gray-yellow forms go down, saw a man come bounding up a rock waving his arms wide like a crazy Indian and take a bullet that doubled him right over so that he fell forward over the rocks and out of sight, and then a whole flood to the right, ten or twelve in a pack, suddenly stopping to kneel and fire, one man in fringed clothes, like buckskin, stopping to prop his rifle against a tree, and then to go down, punched backward, coming all loose and to rubbery pieces and flipping back so one bare foot stood up above a bloody rock. A blast of fire at Chamberlain’s ear. He turned: Kilrain reloading the carbine. Said something. Noise too great to hear. Screams and yells of joy and pain and rage. He saw bloodstains spatter against a tree. Turned. Fire slowing.

They were moving back. Thought: we’ve stopped ‘em. By God and by Mary, we’ve stopped ‘em.

The firing went on, much slower. Smoke was drifting away. But the din from the right was unceasing, the noise from the other side of the hill was one long huge roar, like the ground opening. Kilrain looked that way.

”Half expect ‘em to come in from behind.”

Chamberlain said, “Did you hear Morrill’s Company?”

”No, sir. Couldn’t hear nothing in that mess.”

”Tom?”

Tom shook his head. He had the look of a man who has just heard a very loud noise and has not yet regained his hearing. Chamberlain felt a sudden moment of wonderful delight. He put out a hand and touched his brother’s cheek.

”You stay down, boy.”

Tom nodded, wide-eyed. “Damn right,” he said.

Chamberlain looked out into the smoke. Morrill might have run into them already, might already be wiped out. He saw: a red flag, down in the smoke and dark. Battle flag. A new burst of firing. He moved down the line, Kilrain following, crouched. Men were down. He saw the first dead: Willard Buxton of K. Neat hole in the forehead.

Instantaneous. Merciful. First Sergeant Noyes was with him. Chamberlain touched the dead hand, moved on. He was thinking: with Morrill gone, I have perhaps three hundred men. Few more, few less. What do I do if they flank me?

The emptiness to the left was a vacuum, drawing him back that way. Men were drinking water. He warned them to save it. The new attack broke before he could get to the left.

The attack came all down the line, a full, wild, leaping charge. Three men came inside the low stone wall the boys had built. Two died; the other lay badly wounded, unable to speak. Chamberlain called for a surgeon to treat him. A few feet away he saw a man lying dead, half his face shot away Vaguely familiar. He turned away, turned back. Half the right jawbone visible, above the bloody leer: face of one of the Second Maine prisoners who had volunteered just a few moments past-the fat one. Never had time to know his name. He turned to Kilrain. “That was one of the Maine prisoners. Don’t let me forget.”

Kilrain nodded. Odd look on his face. Chamberlain felt a cool wind. He put a hand out.

”Buster? You all right?”

Bleak gray look. Holding his side.

”Fine, Colonel. Hardly touched me.”

He turned, showed his side. Tear just under the right shoulder, blood filling the armpit. Kilrain stuffed white cloth into the hole. “Be fine in a moment. But plays hell with me target practice. Would you care for the carbine?”

He sat down abruptly Weak from loss of blood. But not a bad wound, surely not a bad wound.

”You stay there,” Chamberlain said. Another attack was coming. New firing blossomed around them. Chamberlain knelt.

Kilrain grinned widely. “Hell, Colonel, I feel saintly.”

”Tom’ll get a surgeon.”

”Just a bit of bandage is all I’ll be needin’. And a few minutes off me feet. Me brogans are killin’ me.” Lapse into brogue.

Tom moved off into the smoke. Chamberlain lost him. He stood. Whine of bullets, whisking murder. Leaves were falling around him. Face in the smoke. Chamberlain stepped forward.

Jim Nichols, K Company: “Colonel, something goin’ on in our front. Better come see.”

Nichols a good man. Chamberlain hopped forward, slipped on a rock, nearly fell, hopped to another boulder, felt an explosion under his right foot, blow knocked his leg away, twirled, fell, caught by Nicholas. Damned undignified. Hurt? Damn!

How are you, sir?

Looked at his foot. Hole in the boot? Blood? No. Numb.

Oh my, begins to hurt now. But no hole, thank God. He stood up.

Nichols pointed. Chamberlain clambered up on a high boulder. Going to get killed, give ‘em a good high target.

Saw: they were coming in groups, from rock to rock, tree to tree, not charging wildly as before, firing as they came, going down, killing us. But there, back there: masses of men, flags, two flags, flanking, moving down the line.

They’re going to turn us. They’re going to that hole in the left…

He was knocked clean off the rock. Blow in the side like lightning bolt. Must be what it feels like. Dirt and leaves in his mouth. Rolling over. This is ridiculous. Hands pulled him up. He looked down. His scabbard rippled like a spider’s leg, stuck out at a ridiculous angle. Blood? No. But the hip, oh my. Damn, damn. He stood up. Becoming quite a target. What was that now? He steadied his mind.

Remembered: they’re flanking us.

He moved back behind the boulder from which he had just been knocked. His hands were skinned; he was licking blood out of his mouth. His mind, temporarily sidetracked, oiled itself and ticked and turned and woke up, functioning.

To Nichols: “Find my brother. Send all company commanders. Hold your positions.”

Extend the line? No.

He brooded. Stood up. Stared to the left, then mounted the rock again, aware of pain but concentrating. To the left the Regiment ended, a high boulder there. Chamberlain thought: What was the phrase in the manual? Muddled brain. Oh yes: refuse the line.

The commanders were arriving. Chamberlain, for the first time, raised his voice. “You men! MOVE!”

The other commanders came in a hurry. Chamberlain said, “We’re about to be flanked. Now here’s what we do. Keep up a good hot masking fire, you understand? Now let’s just make sure the Rebs keep their heads down. And let’s keep a tight hold on the Eighty-third, on old Pennsylvania over there. I want no breaks in the line. That’s you. Captain Clark, understand? No breaks.”

Clark nodded. Bullets chipped the tree above him.

”Now here’s the move. Keeping up the fire, and keeping a tight hold on the Eighty-third, we refuse the line. Men will sidestep to the left, thinning out to twice the present distance. See that boulder? When we reach that point we’ll refuse the line, form a new line at right angles. That boulder will be the salient. Let’s place the colors there, right? Five.

Now you go on back and move your men in sidestep and form a new line to the boulder, and then back from the boulder like a swinging door. I assume that, ah, F Company will take the point. Clear? Any questions?”

They moved. It was very well done. Chamberlain limped to the boulder, to stand at the colors with Tozier. He grinned at Tozier.

”How are you, Andrew?”

”Fine, sir. And you?”

”Worn.” Chamberlain grinned. “A bit worn.”

”I tell you this. Colonel. The boys are making a hell of a fight.”

”They are indeed.”

The fire increased. The Rebs moved up close and began aimed fire, trying to mask their own movement. In a few moments several men died near where Chamberlain was standing. One boy was hit in the head and the wound seemed so bloody it had to be fatal, but the boy sat up and shook hi amp; head and bound up the wound himself with a handkerchief and went back to firing. Chamberlain noted: most of our wounds are in the head or hands, bodies protected. Bless the stone wall. Pleasure to be behind it.